


Five Ways Sherlock Could've Come Back And One Way He Did

by wintersky (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reunions, five things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-06 15:38:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/wintersky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>In the end, Sherlock's return is nothing like John had expected, and at the same time everything he'd hoped it would be.</em><br/>***</p><p>I've always liked the "Five Things" style of fic, so I decided to cobble a bunch of reunion ideas into one of them.<br/>Thanks for reading, as always. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Five

*******

_Sometimes, John thinks of him.  
Sometimes, John dreams of him._

_Every day, John wonders._

*******

It would be a cold night, one of those nights where the cold seeps into your bones and you can't warm up, no matter how hard you try.  
He'd be alone in the cold empty flat, dozing off under a blanket in the armchair next to the fire while the snow fell heavily outside, blanketing the rooftops. The howl of the wind would mingle with the buzz of the ancient radiator, lulling him to sleep.  
The not-quite silence would be lonely, weighty, peaceful-

-and then it wouldn't be not-quite silent anymore.

There'd be a noise downstairs- John would look up, suddenly awake.

There'd be footsteps on the stairs- he would frown and stand, tensing; the blanket would fall to the floor.

The door of 221b would open, creaking, John would open his mouth to call out-

and then he would be there, tall and striking and _alive_ , and John would stop.

The radiator would shudder and grunt and creak back to sleep, and it would truly be silent then, so quiet you could almost hear the snow fall.

And then John would say "Oh,"  
and he would say nothing,

and John would find that he suddenly wasn't so cold anymore.


	2. Four

*******

Or maybe, it'd be in the broad daylight- the blazing August heat, sun too hot and world too bright.  
John would be out, maybe taking a stroll through the city, and he'd walk past an alleyway, a familiar one, and-  
He'd stop. Freeze.  
Turn and look and go back, because he thought he saw a flash of black coat and blue scarf _(in this heat? Well, of course)-_  
 _but it was probably just your imagination, always is anyway-_  
and so he'd shake his head and keep on walking.

A few blocks down, John would feel as though he was being followed.  
He would very nearly turn to look, and then he would hear a single syllable, in a voice he hasn't heard for three long years.

"John."

And he would whip round and his eyes would be drawn instantly to him, standing there silhouetted in the sunlight and glowing like some kind of angel, all cheekbones and mystery, and although the street is crowded he is the only one John can see, the only thing in his whole world-

and John would open his mouth and utter the name he hasn't dared speak- because saying it is a knife to his heart, twisting and cutting and making him bleed, _SherlockSherlockSherlock-_ for those three lonely years-

"Sherlock."

*******


	3. Three

*******

_It could be tonight,_ John thinks.

He could come home from drinks with the Yard boys and _he_ could be there, in the flat, waiting for him.  
John would stumble into the foyer of 221 after one too many pints. The door would slam shut like a gunshot behind him, his head throbbing, and then his eyes would adjust and he'd see a shadowy form leaning against the wall.

He wouldn't cry out, wouldn't move to confront the intruder, because somehow, John would know; know it was _him_.

And then he would step forward and John would step forward to meet him, and then before he could think Sherlock's hands would be round his waist and his fingers would be carding through Sherlock's curls, breathless, and Sherlock would turn harshly and pin him against the wall, and then their lips would meet....

tongues tangling and teeth nipping and short fast breaths in the dark, shirts coming unbuttoned and trousers too tight and fumbling hands and then a cry of his name, sweet and rich and low.

"I've missed you."

*******


	4. Two

*******

_On the train_ , John thinks suddenly; _why the hell_ not _on the train?_

He'd be going out to Dorchester to visit Harry, finally- he's been meaning to for ages, and is beginning to feel like a pretty shit excuse for a little brother.  
He'd wake up early, pack a bag in the grey light of dawn; just enough for an overnight trip, because after about twenty-six hours the Watson siblings usually start to want to kill each other.

John would take the Underground to Waterloo Station at 7.20; have a cup of lukewarm tea and a limp croissant there and maybe pick up a copy of the Times for the trip.  
He'd find where he needed to be, make sure his ticket was in order, and then would come the waiting.

*******

They'd call his train at 8.30. He'd board and find himself a spot near the back, tucked in a corner alone, as usual.  
He'd leave the seat next to him empty, of course, holding his bag on his lap; partly common courtesy, partly years of polite habit.  
He'd lean back and close his eyes, settling in for the three-hour ride up to Dorset.

A little while later, John would awake to a tap on his shoulder.

He'd startle awake, rubbing his eyes and mumbling an apology, and when the room came into focus he wouldn't believe what he saw:

Sherlock Holmes, smiling coolly, leaning over him and asking smoothly in that chocolate baritone-

"Is this seat taken?"

*******


	5. One

_Hyde Park?_

_Yes,_ John thinks; _I can see it now._

He'd be working with the Yard boys- he does that sometimes, now, if they need him and he thinks he can handle it- on the case they've been going at for a week or so now ( _because please, please let it be soon..._ )

Greg would phone early one morning, tell him that he's needed down at the Park-  
"Sorry, mate, but we've got a lead for the Lockshelm Horse case....Some bloke contacted me the other night, says he was there. I can't get away right now, so if you wouldn't mind...? I've given him your number, he'll tell you where he is."

 _Can't really say no, can I; you've got this all planned out,_ John would sigh, but he'd be happy to go. They've been making no progress on the case- involving a stolen racehorse- and it'll be something to do, in any case.

"Sure, Greg, I will...Alright...No, it's no trouble. Yeah. Okay. Goodbye."

He would yawn, hanging up the phone and rubbing his eyes.  
 _Too early._  
But he'd get dressed and limp downstairs and hail a cab, bleary-eyed.

On the other end of the line, Greg Lestrade would smile as he hung up the phone, before firing off a text to a familiar number.  
"He's on his way."

*******

John would tell the cab driver to take him to Hyde Park; try to sleep on the short drive.  
When they arrived, he'd barely have finished paying the driver and tucking away his change when his phone would buzz- a text.

"Next to the horse statue."

John would frown- no name, no signature, just "Unknown number."  
 _How apropos,_ he'd think, _a horse statue for a horse case_ , and he'd set off at a slow, painful pace- _limp's bad today_ \- toward the statue.

*******

As John walked through the park, he'd remember-  
remember one midnight chase through the flower gardens, in which they managed to uproot some prize rosebushes while chasing after a Tube robber- Mycroft had to pay to replace them, something he wasn't too happy about-"For the last time, Sherlock, grow _up_ "- but John and Sherlock got their man, so to speak.

John would chuckle at the thought, remembering that night fondly; he'd feel a familiar pang, remembering Sherlock's laugh, eyes giddy and bright as he grabbed John's hand and whispered " _Run!_ "

He'd sigh, suddenly saddened by the memories.  
He'd blink, remembering where he needed to be; he'd do a cursory look around, seeing the old horse statue not too far away.  
And there, the benches- he'd pick up the pace, walk toward the only occupied one....

and stop.

The bench's occupant, from the back, looked exactly like-

_No, John. It can't be._

But it must be, it _has_ to be.

The same dark curls, same high popped collar on a black coat-

- _and if that's a blue scarf I swear I'll-_

It is.

*******

"Sherlock?"- barely a whisper, barely a hope.

As if on cue, the man on the bench would turn, his elbow resting atop it, cool and relaxed-

 _him_.

Their eyes would lock.  
John would freeze.  
 _Am I dreaming?_

Sherlock would stand, a smile playing on his lips, eyebrows raised hopefully.  
And John would step forward, disbelieving, not knowing what to think-  
and then snap.

*******

Before he knew it, he'd be running, racing to him, to kiss him or kill him he's not sure, fists clenching, heart pounding in his ears, limp completely gone.  
Sherlock's eyes would widen, he'd open his mouth, "John" barely escaping his lips before John's fist connected with his cheekbone.

Between punches and gasping breaths, John would manage to huff "You- left- me!"

"All alone for all that time. You _bastard._ "

Sherlock would flinch, dodge. "I think we're done now, John..." he'd say weakly, but with a new light in his eyes-

John would stop. Remember.  
 _Sherlock's making a joke. He's making a bloody_ joke _. Oh, for the love of God...._

He'd suppress a smile, step back from Sherlock, who'd press a hand to his bleeding face, wincing and avoiding John's gaze.

John would return his line, deadpan.  
"You don't remember, Sherlock. I was a soldier. I killed people."

Sherlock would look up, still not meeting his eyes- _but he knows,_ John thinks.

"You were a doctor!"

John would step close again, hesitating; wanting to make sure the detective was alright, but unwilling to touch him-  
"I had bad days."

And then Sherlock's eyes would meet his at last, and he'd smile- _forgive me?_ \- and John would smile back- _yes, you idiot_ \- and then the space between them that spanned three years would disappear, and they'd be laughing and Sherlock's arms would be pulling him close and they'd just stand, holding each other, and they would find that it was what they'd been waiting for all along.  
They would go silent then, Sherlock gazing down at John, and John would see something in his eyes that he'd never seen before, and something about that _something_ would compel him to reach up slowly- careful of the fresh bruises- and take the detective's face in both hands, and softly, tentatively press his lips to his.

When they broke apart at last, John would shake his head, grinning; take a deep breath, then speak.

"I love you, you know. Always have."

Sherlock would look down at him, his eyes playful.

"I know. I always have."


	6. And One Way He Did

*******

In the end, Sherlock's return is nothing more than everything it should be.

*******

It is a calm, sunny afternoon at Baker Street; John's off work today, and he's enjoying a cup of tea in his favourite armchair, catching up on a novel. It's comfortably quiet in the flat, until-  
\- a key in the lock downstairs.

John frowns. It's not Mrs Hudson; she's at bridge club, and won't be home for a few hours yet.  
Only one other person has the key, but he-  
John shakes his head, not wanting to finish the thought but not letting himself hope.

_He's dead, remember?-_

so what is it, then, that compels John to stand, moving cautiously closer to the doorway, his mouth forming that name silently-  
and then, all of a sudden, in a blur of coat and scarf, he is there.

Sherock.

He is standing in the doorway and he is looking at John with something unfamiliar in his eyes- _it's fear,_ John realizes: apprehension, uncertainty; the great Sherlock Holmes is afraid.

*******

John stares.  
Sherlock stares.  
John blinks; Sherlock does not move.  
He shakes his head, sure he's seeing things.  
Sherlock is still there.  
 _He's real,_ says a little voice. _He's alive._

John is suddenly enraged, engulfed in a white-hot fury, disbelief- what the _hell_ is going on here?

He steps forward, hands clenching by his sides.  
When he speaks, his voice is deadly.

"How _dare_ you."

John's voice shakes.

"Three years, Sherlock. Three _bloody_ years. You left me all alone, for _three years._  
I had to watch you throw yourself off a fucking building. I thought you were _dead!_ "

He is shouting now, his eyes flashing, and here, now, the words come pouring out, a torrent of desperation and rage and relief-

"Do you know how that _feels_ , Sherlock? To believe that your best friend is dead? To see his _body_ on the pavement, and to hear him say goodbye to you over and over every single _fucking_ day for _three fucking years? Do you know how that feels?"_

Exhausted, John stops.  
For a moment, he and Sherlock just stand and stare. John is breathing hard, his face flushed. Sherlock is infuriatingly stoic.  
 _Why won't he say something?_....

....but now Sherlock is stepping closer, and John's world becomes _him_ , only him, his eyes and his face and his smell, that exquisite blend of rain and musk and chemicals and something dark and sweet and uniquely his....

and suddenly they are kissing, John's hands grasping Sherlock's lapels and pulling him down hungrily, Sherlock snaking his arms round John's waist and crushing him to him, one hand in John's hair.

It lasts an eternity and is over too soon.

When they break apart, John takes a step back. Sherlock does the same.

They hesitate.  
 _Where do we go from here?_

But at last, Sherlock smiles.

"You don't know how long I've been waiting to do that."

John takes a breath.  
How does he tell him, tell him that surely he can't have been waiting longer than John has, waiting since the moment they met and every day since; how does he tell him that he's spent three years dreaming of Sherlock's lips on his?

He can't find the words, but he doesn't need to; Sherlock is kissing him again, sweet and sorry and _right_ , and John succumbs to it, whispering against his lips-

"Welcome home, you brilliant idiot."

*******

_fin._


End file.
